Wednesday, September 29, 2004

This Thursday night there will be a solid three hours of completely rehearsed spontanaeity in the first of three Presidential debates. This "debate" has more rules than the restraining order Chuck E. Cheese (the company, not the actual man, he died in 1986 of congestive heart failure) sent me for "defacing the Chuck E. Cheese suit with more than one unclean bodily fluid." I really like pizza. Sue me.

I'm just afraid that, under the hot lights, John Kerry will finally finish melting. He's been on the verge for years now, but using a cryogenic containment unit that they put on his head between public appearances and lots of Wetnaps®, they've been able to control that.

George W. Bush may have a tough time if he can't figure out a way to work September 11th into every single sentence he says. He works that angle more than Al Bundy and his four touchdowns in one game. It's irritating that people actually fall for the stuff that he says. Republicans say anything they want but as long as they say it with a discerning scowl, people take it at face value. "It's been proven by a panel of people who prove things that John Kerry has, in fact, raped a robot. I know. I couldn't believe it myself, but somebody said so, so it must be true. September Eleventh." They're wiley.

I think the Presidential debates would be much more entertaining if they were both hooked up to a lie detector and each time it went off ("went off" in the fictional way that lie detectors buzz when somebody's lying) a member of their family would be shot in the chest at point blank range by a Cherokee Indian using a traditional bow and arrow (Small Pox-infected blankets optional). I think that this way both candidates wouldn't throw out information that may or may not be true. And, actually, I think G.W. would be pushed to (public) incontinence.

I think it's a sign of my age and somewhat political activism that I'm actually excited about the debates coming up. I feel like Anthony Michael Hall's character in The Breakfast Club. "Why do you have a fake I.D.?" "So I can vote." I hope and pray to Allah every day that somehow the stubborn sheep of the right wing will learn the error and close-mindedness of their ways and burn their cowboy hats and "I hate the gays" bumper stickers in protest.

Sometimes it seems like people vote based on what they grew up with instead of actually figuring out their own ideals. A lot of people treat their party (both Republicans and Democrats) like it's a sport's team that they can't just let go. It's a shame that people stick to the name rather than the ideals that the candidate pushes forth. It would be interesting to see if everybody was left in a bubble with only their own mind to tell them what to think instead of Fox News or CNN or the homeless guy near work who says he's voting for a week-old ham sandwich. I'm not sure what side would "win out," but at least this way it would be much more pure. Right now, after I vote, I feel like I have to take a shower or at least get a scalding hot water and bleach enema.

Well, it turns out that that girl from my Spanish class has a pretty good front, too. I probably won't say anything to her because I'm just a dirty old man; I'll just quietly masturbate in the back (in Spanish).

Interesting thought of the day:
If you're voting for the candidate that Don King is endorsing, you really may want to rethink that choice.

Monday, September 27, 2004

I have commented previously about how expensive the Spanish language can be, and, my friends, it is no truer than now. I just spent $185 on books for one class that I'm required to take because my major is film. It's a good thing there's a logical reason I have to take Spanish, or else I'd be really upset. Man, that girl in my class better turn out to be really cute and, for the $185, I better be getting some out of the ordeal.

I saw The Forgotten over the weekend but I don't remember what it was about. HAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! HEEEHEEEHEEEHEEE! Man, that's probably the funniest thing I've ever written and I was the author of the hit children's book Penis Vagina Hump Balls. Honestly though, the movie was okay because Julianne Moore is a good actress, but the plot got so shitty so fast, like a Port-a-Pottie at a laxative convention. I'm not going to ruin it for you because they do a good enough job ruining it themselves, but it starts off promising, but then goes for the easy plot cop-out instead of making it more interesting.

The Forgotten, though, was like goddamn Citizen Kane compared to what could easily go down as one of the worst movies of the (relatively) new millenium. The movie I'm talking about, of course, is Wicker Park. First, don't feel too badly for me, I didn't have to pay for it. I'm pretty sure that Josh Hartnett just tries his hardest to make the worst movies that can be made--he's like the acting version of John Tesh. Just by being in a movie, he automatically makes it suck exponentially more. But Josh Hartnett couldn't make this the worst movie ever by himself. He instilled the help of another guy who has the keen ability of the Hartnett--Matthew Lillard. These two men together are like the Siegfried and Roy of shit. They magically make horrible movies appear as though out of thin air (and, coincidentally, with the help of adorable white tigers). If you want actual explanations of why it sucked, fine. Josh Hartnett and Matthew Lillard aside, the director tried way too hard to make it so artsy. His music choice sucked. There was an actual musical cue to let the viewer know that "true love" was being experienced and it was some weird-sounding Enya song (guess that was redundant) or something. If I ever, in my cold, dead heart, experienced true love, I definitely wouldn't hear Enya; it'd probably be something like "Baby Got Back" or "Face Down, Ass Up" by Beethoven I believe.

I'm done. I have to go pick lettuce for nine hours to pay for my Spanish books. Not only do they not accept American money to buy Spanish books, but they only accept payment in the way of their people. It was either pick lettuce or steal car radios.

Interesting thought of the day:
Mayonnaise is like heroine. It's fine in small amounts, but if you get too much of it that's been in the sun for a few hours, you'll die.

Friday, September 24, 2004

Today was the first day of my last quarter at school. The interesting thing about the first day of school is that you can tell, no matter how old people get, they always still try to come to school looking awesome and there's so much scoping out that goes on. I'm guilty of it, too. The bad part is, being a film major, there aren't really too many good looking chicks in these classes. But, I have to take the last of the Spanish series of classes since I didn't test out of it altogether (by the way, fuck the future perfect Spanish tense--I'm sorry, I mean, will you have had fucked the future perfect Spanish tense, please?). Anyway, there's a chick who had a cute back of the head in that class. I'm going to have to see if I recognize that back of the head again and try to sit closer to her next time so I can see what the front looks like.

Speaking of that Spanish class, the professor is probably the most awesome professor I've had ever. He made a joke, in Spanish, about being retarded in the first five minutes of class. Is this love? Este esta amor? Creo que si!

In another of my classes, some girl was kicking the back of my chair like somebody told her they'd give her a dollar every time she did it. She made close to $800 in an hour.

The reason I've titled this Mexican-y Day is because one of my classes that was supposed to be an experimental and avant-garde film class was, all of the sudden, a class about the portrayal of Latin people in film. Now, this being my last quarter, it's impossible for me to drop this class and still graduate, so I have to sit through ten weeks of hearing about how wrong and misrepresenting it is to have a Mexican gang stealing the stereos in Short Circuit 2. "Los Locos kick your ass. Los Locos kick your face. Los Locos kick your balls into outer spaaaace!" The toughest gangs are those that sing nursery rhymes before they commit their crimes. So, two of my four classes deal with Spanish people or the language. And, to top it off, I had some carne asada for lunch. This carne, however was more chewy than Han Solo's best friend. Ooohh, I said it. I'm not afraid to make a Star Wars pun, bitch.

But, the best thing that happened today has to have been when I was in the library reading between classes. What a fucking dork I am, you're thinking. Well, sure, the first day of class and I was already getting my reading done, but what the hell else am I supposed to do with an hour and a half and a two hour break? There's only so many times a guy can masturbate on the fourth floor in the section that holds all the National Geographics without getting caught. I wasn't going to risk getting caught on the first day.

Well, as I was reading, I hear a voice coming from behind me. This voice was quiet, yet loud enough so that I could hear it about three feet away. I turned to see what this young chap was doing, and he was reading questions aloud from his textbook. Okay, this isn't that bad. I can let this go. But, then, after he read the question, he would answer it, again out loud, and check the answer in his book. Then, when he would get it right, he would actually say, "Yes!" I want so desperately to be his friend. I should have said something to him, but I didn't want to be the reason he got an answer wrong. The reason I wanted to be his friend is because there's no way he'll ever last at school and he's going to pull a Remy from Higher Learning and shoot up the school from the top of the damn belltower.

The next ten weeks will help me fill this bastard with tales from school. I hope that, for some strange reason, a blind, deaf Eskimo ends up in one of my classes. Coincidentally, I'm going to be taking Hunting Whales Using Only Your Sense of Smell 101, so I think the odds are pretty good.

Interesting thought of the day:
People with outie belly buttons are the unicorns of the human race.

Wednesday, September 22, 2004

I'm going to write this post quickly because my ass hurts. See, I completely destroyed my computer chair. It turns out, I'm a big fucking fatass. After only about nine months or so, I've decimated a perfectly good chair assembled by a Malaysian boy in a sweatshop at 3:30 in the morning. Damn lazy kids.

It all started a few weeks ago when the hydraulics on my chair started to malfunction. Now, I know, calling it hydraulics is a bit far-fetched, but you know what I'm talking about, the little lever that lets me lift my chair to normal adult-feeding height. Plus, I have to call it hydraulics because I bought them in a package deal with my five two-inch spinner rims I put on all my wheels. Slowly but surely the damn chair started falling apart.

One day, I look over and there's a rip in one of the armrests where, apparently, a bear had tried to eat and/or mate with my chair. I could put up with both of these things. My spine had adjusted to sitting two and a half feet below my monitor. I couldn't see the keyboard, but I can type without looking, so that wasn't a big deal.

But, it completely died today when I tilted to the left ever so slightly and the chair suddenly developed Palsy. It then constantly leaned to the left like the heroine addict that hangs out in front of the 7-11. So, being the handyman I am, I took the bastard apart to fix it. When I had it opened, I realized that it was too late and I should announce the time of death. If I had a welding torch and knew any sort of shit about how to weld stuff and didn't have a raging fear of fire like Raymond's fear of water in Rain Man, I would have completely fixed it. But, alas, the chair's torso just stared up at me, its lifeless green eye empty and soulless. This wasn't the chair I once knew. The chair I used to know wouldn't have stood there, he would have commanded me, "Force your ass upon me with all your weight, good sir! For I shall bare the brunt of your posterior until the day I die!" Well old boy, today's the day.
Today's the day.

I miss my loyal, British-accent-having chair.

Interesting thought of the day:
Do deaf people ever hear God speak to them? No. Because the lazy bastard took Latin instead of Sign Language when he was in college.

Tuesday, September 21, 2004

Though I've written about The Baio in the past, I haven't gone into enough detail as to why I shall, now and forever, worship the ground on which he charges.

See, as some of you may or may not be aware, this young man began his rise to superstardom on the television show Happy Days. This was a show about hippies who dressed up like they were from the Fifties because they were on acid all the time. The bald guy who directed How the Grinch Stole Christmas was in it before he was bald, and the gay guy from The Waterboy was in it before he was gay and when he was really cool and probably beat up gay people (not so cool, but it can be forgiven by looking at his awesome leather jacket).

Anyway, there was this sparkplug of a man-child named Scott Baio who wore a bandana better than Bruce Springsteen or a gaggle (the actual, scientific term for a group) of bikers. He romanced the ladies with his prepubescent charm and won the heart of one Joanie (Erin Moran--the sad part, I didn't even have to look up her real name). As a side note, while searching google for pictures of a young Scott Baio, it's nigh impossible to find one of him with a shirt on. So, instead, you get a picture of the VHS cover of the film, Zapped, starring Scott and lifelong buddy, Willie "Bibleman" Aames.

After his turn as lover of Joanie in the spinoff of Happy Days, he went on to star in two incarnations of one of the--if not the--greatest television shows ever made. The reason for his status to near-deity, is because of his ability to balance his own pedophilic urges (sure, maybe I made the word pedophilic up just now, but you know what I'm talking about, so fuck you and your high-and-mighty attitude) with the homoerotic undertones that surged through his relationship with Buddy (the aforementioned Willie "Bibleman" Aames). I'm a sucker for parentheticals. Jesus Christ. I get more sidetracked than a necrophiliac with a gift certificate at the morgue. I'm not even sure what that means. In one episode, Charles could go from reprimanding Lila for making fun of Douglas by punching her in the cervix, to making out with Buddy on the couch in a sorority house after the commercial break. Sure, I was on medication to stop my hyperactivity when I was younger that had a few side effects, so these things may not have been exactly as I say here. But, there are two things I am sure about: 1) Charles constantly spit fire at the Pembrokes and the Powells and 2) It was wrong of me to take a dump on the TV in front of my grandparents.

This was a fun entry. I don't think any of it made sense and that's the way I like it.

Interesting thought of the day:
Pubic lice (crabs) are a lot like regular lice except they really like cock.

I punched a few of thar buttons on the magic stick and pointed it toward the picture box in front of me at eight o'clock in the evening. Apparently, I was watching something from deep in the past as thar be a message along the bottom of the screen that I had me mate, Cutthroat Leonard (yes, his name's Leonard--he's sensitive about it. Poor bastard wasn't born with a true pirate's name like Dudley), read it to me. He informed me that, since we had just arrived fresh from the burning seas of the Pacific, that we were not allowed to watch events as they happened, but, instead, we were forced to see things that people had already seen who docked their ships in the Atlantic.

I was tempted right then and there to disembowel somebody with me hook (which makes this whole "typing" thing quite difficult) since nobody but nobody should get the news before I's gets the news. But, I thought better of it and poured beer all over a wench instead since that's what we pirates do. We pour beer on women and eat turkey legs all day long.

One of the first bloody faces I see is one of a man who has a mouth like the port hole of our cabin boy. I half expected a fresh, brown sea log to squeeze from his puckering lips. When that didn't happen, I knew I was just looking at a man uglier than my father--a man so ugly he sank his first ship at age 19 just by cracking a smile at it. Legend has it that the boat so feared how he looked, that it disappeared into the abyss before he could board it. To this day, if you utter the name "Rocky Dennis" at a plank of wood, you can actually hear it scream.

Thar be lots of women too skinny for a sound raping in the audience. I's be afraid that if I struck some of them with me scabbard, they'd split in twine *wink*. Yarr! Sure I'm a pirate, but even I can't help but love writing a word like *wink*, *smile*, or LOL. They're so communicative in writing that I believe I shall put them on me next treasure map. "X Marks the Spot ;)" Avas! No one can ever figure out me newly found code. None but the dreaded code-figurer-outer Stephen "Walks No Plank" Hawking. But, me cohorts, I digress. One lass, a Lara Flynn Boyle, would have easily been swallowed by the hole in the tip of mine own cannon if you know what I'm saying. Us pirates aren't that great with innuendo, but I have a feeling you know what I mean. Ms. Boyle's face is much like me Skull and Crossbones sailing high above me ship, The S.S. Bootyhunter.

It's good to see that not everybody forgot about our blessed day. One wench, Drea de Matteo, kept the pirate tradition alive by wearing a blouse commemorating us seafarers. Even though she never actually mentioned it, I can't help but think, by the way she wields yon award and has tainted her flesh with the ink of man, that she is one of us. Thar be a button on this screen called Adobe Photoshop and, using its magic, I have confirmed that she is, in fact, one of us. She has cunningly rearranged the spacing of her name to conceal her identity, but I have found her out. She is the much feared Spanish pirate Dread Ematteo. Behold! My sworn enemy she is. Talk like Yoda us pirates do on occasion. Deal with it, you will.

Much to my surprise and, dare I say it, joy, the scurvy seadogs at the Academy gave an award to a show, Arrested Development, that's actually good. A pirate can only see Frasier win so many times before he makes a trip down to the island of Television Arrrrrts and Sciences and makes everybody walk the plank. But, since they've made me happy, I'll give them the little-used and never-discussed pirate's prostate milking. People always talk about the bad things us pirates do, but they never discuss the good things. But, since ye asked, I'll have you know that I, along with my shipmates, have donated five percent of our booty (and that's AFTER taxes) to a local hospital for treatment of scurvy.

Yarrr! I'm done writing about the Emmy's. They're more boring than raping a wench ye have raped before.

Pirate adage of the day:
Ye can only trust two things in this world: your parrot and your ship. And, I fucked your mother.

Sunday, September 19, 2004

It seems that Jesus has decided to make me feel my newly acquired age of 26 by making me sore for almost no good reason. I went bowling, and now my left ass is sore. I don't bowl any differently than most people (most people throw the ball ten feet in the air, turn around and let it carem off their left asscheek, correct?). All I know is, Friday night I went bowling, Saturday morning I woke up and my ass hurt like I spent all night kicking my "handsy" uncle in the balls.

Man, I just used an expression I hate: "All I know is..." Fuck me. If that really was all I knew, I'd be shitting my pants (well, what I called "pants" but was actually a bunch of ketchup packets from Jack in the Box that I put on my legs because I liked that they felt cool on my skin), fucking a bucket of mud instead of typing this. I said "instead of," not "in addition to." I'm allowed to do all three of those things and have a completely average mental capacity.

A couple of entries have gone by sans comments from the faithful readers. What's going on, kids? Do I need to write about more offensive things? I have no problem doing this, but I'm trying to build up somewhat of a more mainstream portfolio of non-fiction writing selections so I don't get replies like the following:

Kurt,

We here at Reader's Digest are not interested in a writer who shares your beliefs on "Whoopi Goldberg," "retards," or "the skin tag on your taint." If you'd like to reapply, you may do so only after six months has passed from the time of this email. If, at that time, you have grown up and learned to write things like a normal, non-sociopathic human being, we'd be more than happy to hear from you again.

Sincerely,

Reader's Digest Senior Editor
Diana Casey

So, cut me some slack if I don't write a diatribe on how I hate people with arms that are too short for their body and, therefore, should be burned at the stake for being witches.

Friday, September 17, 2004

Kim Basinger and the guy from Not Another Teen Movie joined forces to create a hilarious film called Cellular which I had the distinguished pleasure of witnessing tonight. The director managed to do something which isn't done enough, which is making a movie so bad that it's funny. It seemed like he learned all these "cool tricks" in film school that he had to use as much as possible no matter what. There were a lot of camera movements that were as unexpected as a fart that brings a little liquid luggage along with it. The worst part, though, was that every movie cliche ever made was in the film. They're too numerous to name one by one, but, needless to say, the scene where the policeman who's just about to retire, but decides he has one last thing to do--that's in there.

The most heartbreaking thing about the film is that it was a decent idea (like the movie Birth I saw a preview for--awesome idea), but it was so full of contrivances--down to the idea that the kidnappers would leave a working phone line, albeit smashed phone, in the room where Kim Basinger was--that it made me want to burn everbody involved with the film alive. I don't have anything particularly funny to say about the film without ruining it, except to say that you really should go see it, but go knowing that it sucks so bad it's good.

The best part of the night was after the movie, in the parking lot, as I'm about to back out I see a young boy and girl standing at their respective cars in that awkward is-he-going-to-try-to-kiss-me?/I-wonder-what-her-cervix-feels-like moment. I laughed in my car as I watched the guy squirm and gesticulate in all his glory as he tried to figure out just what to do. I left before they did anything, but not without stickying up my steering wheel and ruining another gear shift knob.

Boring entry tonight; pretend that I used the phrase "Walrus chewing on a sack of boogers" a lot.

Made-up aphorism of the day:
Humanity is like a box of Crayolas. If you buy enough, it comes with a free crayon sharpener.

Thursday, September 16, 2004

Tonight on NBC, Maria "Skeletor" Shriver interviewed Siegfried and Roy. The majority of the interview consisted of recreating, with creepy computer graphics that made Roy look like Kevin Bacon in Hollow Man, the incident where Roy lost half his head and his pure, Aryan bloodline was tainted by the mouth of a tiger. Even though he's a "white" tiger, Montecore is actually half-Jewish. His agent didn't want him to use his last name, Greenberg, for fear that it would hinder his getting a gig with the dazzling duo.

The thing is, Roy is so fucked up now. Nobody should be allowed to make fun of him. He's like this girl I met one time in junior high who fell off a damn horse and, at age 14, had to relearn everything. A side note: She apparently hadn't relearned the old "Put this in your mouth and count to ten" trick. I'll take it how I can get it.

It's weird though, because it's hard enough to understand Siegfried and he hasn't had a stroke (other than the pre-attack ones on his "magic wand" from Roy). But listening to Roy is like trying to understand Muhammad Ali underwater.

The strangest thing of all is that, when somebody goes through something that almost kills them and fucks them up for life, a lot of the time they end up "finding God." As somebody who'd sooner believe that a fucking dragon lives at the center of the earth and he's made of cotton candy, than the idea that God exists, perhaps I'm biased, but I just can't understand this. If I got completely fucked up--paralyzed, castrated, or had to go through life as that kid in class who always smelled like poop--I'd believe less and less that there was a God. If I couldn't control when I shat (past tense of to shit) and I had a tube pulling the urine from the tiny penis that the Lord bestowed upon me, the last thought through my head would be, Jesus loves me! But, somehow, like the magic he so loved to practice before the tiger-induced stroke made his eyes look like Shannon Doherty's, Roy found God on the operating table when they were pulling eight-pound teeth from his neck.

I hope that cheered everybody up today. I know I feel much better.

Interesting thought of the day:
If a person in front of you has a lot of groceries and you have very little, just say to the person, "You don't know what gets bloodstains out of Barbie Doll hair, do you? By the way, I'm in a huge rush, do you think there's any way I can go ahead of you? I hate waiting almost as much as I hate mandatory visitation." Odds are, you'll get to buy your spaghetti sauce and People Magazine much sooner.

Wednesday, September 15, 2004

No, this isn't the nickname for the whore in your English Lit class that you saw going down on two guys at once at a frat party. I'm talking about Hurricane Ivan in all its glory. Is it wrong that I thoroughly enjoy the fact that the Southeastern United States is having its ass beaten by three consecutive hurricanes? The best part about this is that Charley and Frances, the previous two hurricanes, did so much damage and have the gayest names. First, Charley came in with his baby-tee and handbag and softened Florida up. Then, Hurricane "Don't Call Me Frank" Frances removed his fannypack and choked the shit out of what was left. Now, their butch friend, Ivan, is here to make sure that "that punk-ass bitch, Florida, don't go talking no shit behind their backs no more."

To anybody that may have died in Charley, I feel bad for you. To anybody that died in Frances, you were warned. To anybody that dies in Ivan, you deserve it and I hope you enjoy your nightly soul-rapings in the bowels of Hell for the next thousand years. Seriously, anybody who doesn't get out of Florida in a timely manner this time better be completely paralyzed, dead, or absolutely retarded--or some combination of those three. It would suck if somebody left their paraplegic, retarded son outside, chained to the porch during the hurricane, but I'm not saying I wouldn't want the video.

I'm not writing a lot today. Except, if you're the brunette girl who worked at Honolulu Harry's in Corona tonight, and, by some miracle of miracles, you read this, I'm pretty sure I'm in love with you. She looked like an elf and an angel had a baby made of clouds, candy, and rainbows. I wanted to cut her head off and take it home with me, she was so pretty. Maybe that's why I'm not allowed to cut off girls' heads anymore; I just get carried away.

Interesting thought of the day:
If you punch a kitten in the face enough times, it eventually stops being cute.

Tuesday, September 14, 2004

On the way to Vegas on Friday afternoon, there were six of us riding in some big vehicle. I'm not good with car makes or models, so I won't even pretend to try to give the actual name of what it was. Well, we hit a shitload of traffic like it was 1985 and Vegas was selling Cabbage Patch Kids for $1.00.

There are certain people, in this situation, that one chooses to keep an eye on. There was the man from Argentina who we saw inside the Del Taco in Baker (or Barstow--one has the world's largest thermometer, the other has the Dairy Queen, but I get them confused) who screamed at one of the guys I went with, "We beat you in basket!" We're assuming that this meant that his country beat our country in basketball in the Olympics. I'm assuming this after doing a google search for "Argentina defeats US in basket" and coming up empty. Then there was the bitch in the Audi who, in five-mile-an-hour traffic, was riding people's tails like she was a puppy fucking another with a knot in her cock. She just wouldn't get off.

Finally, there was this beat up old car (again, sorry I'm bad with car types, but it was blue, does that help?) that you could tell didn't have air conditioner that had two adults in the front two seats and two german shepherds and a young girl, probably five or thirteen, in the backseat. The dogs were pacing in what little room they had in the Vegas heat and the little girl was sipping some sort of beverage. We all made note of the shitty situation for the girl in the back and one of the guys I was with says, "She's pulling hair from her cup." This sounds innocent enough. But, when you're a sick-ass sonofabitch like I am, it comes out, "She's pulling hair from her cunt." I immediately started laughing and trying to stave off a monster erection that had to be just around the corner. When asked from other people in the car why I was laughing so hard, I was puzzled. Had I accidentally agreed to ride to Vegas with a truck/SUV-ful of pedophiles and not known it? The word 'cunt' is horrible enough, but to use it to reference the young girl's area, it was too much to take. Even I, who fake pedophilia occasionally, couldn't help but laugh at the harshness of what he said. When I reiterated to the other five in the truck why I was laughing, all of a sudden, I'm the sicko? Fuck those guys; they're the ones who said it. It didn't even make sense. Why would a young girl trapped in the backseat of a car in hundred-degree weather with two huge dogs be pulling hair from her prepubescent no-no spot? Then, it dawned on me that I had misheard what he had said and I was forced by the other five guys to immediately register as a sex offender for even thinking of what I didn't actually hear.

Well, technically, today (the 14th) is my birthday. I'm a year older and still, at age 26, unable to grow a full beard. It's sad when you think about it. When I was younger, I was sure that by my age I'd be able to grow a full beard, pee at a urinal like the grown-ups without having to pull my pants all the way to my ankles, and I would have, at least once, known the ultimate pleasure of meeting the blonde chick from The Wonder Years who says, "Would You Like Some Butter" in French. Sadly, none of these things have come to fruition.

Interesting thought of the day:
"Four score and seven years ago," in olden times, was what people used to say instead of "Many moons ago, bitches!" Sure, only my Native American friend, Busts Caps In Y'all Motherfuckas, who's in the only gang openly recruiting Cherokee, says stuff like that, but that doesn't make it any less true. Stop judging me.

I'll rape the great grandchildren of anybody who posts a comment and doesn't wish me a fucking happy birthday.

Monday, September 13, 2004

I don't even know what the headline means. Nothing "gay" happened in Vegas. It was just your random, run-of-the-mill, three-day bonanza of salad tossing and tongue kissing with boys, Boys, BOYS!!!

But that's Vegas. You know what they say, "What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas." I hate when people use that expression about any place. "What happens in Delaware, stays in Delaware! Woooooooo!" I heard that about Vegas, and, on the 15 on the way there, there were signs that said that sort of thing, but, let me tell you, that's complete bullshit.

Five things that most definitely do NOT stay in Vegas.

The tattoo on my lower back of a unicorn on a pogo stick in front of a rainbow.

Thoughts of pedophilia while walking through the midway at Circus Circus. It's not my fault a thirteen year-old with a teddy bear and a hairlip is fucking hot.

My new, half-Ecuadoran son, Pepe "El Accidento."

Buffet-induced diarrhea. By the way, as an added bonus to having written this thing for over a year now, I've become very adept at spelling the oft-misspelled word, diarrhea.

Genital Warts.

Five things that actually do stay in Vegas.

Warrants for attempting to fellate a homeless man with no arms or legs.

My money.

The body.

Legal prostitution. (For all you nitpickers, I know that prostitution isn't technically legal in Vegas, but, instead, in a nearby county. But it may as well be legal, what with the gauntlet of illegal immigrants passing out advertisements on the strip like they're the Hare Krishnas of whores. )

My ability to say, "I've never kicked a Cher impersonator in the balls" without lying.

The strange thing about Vegas buffets is that there's such a strange mix of foods that you would normally never find in one place, but these places have them all. For instance, at the Mandalay Bay Buffet (pronounced Buffay, unless you're the weird, foreign lady that works there and, instead, prefers to pronounce it as it's spelled, Buffett), you can get fried chicken, soft-serve ice-cream, crab legs, and some pasta all within a nine-foot diameter. This is often the reason that another thing to stay in Vegas is the lower quarter-mile of my small intestine; orange roughy and chocolate cake aren't meant to be eaten within even a week of one another, let alone mixed together and poured down my gluttonous throat in shake form.

People never understand how I can have fun in Vegas since I don't drink, smoke, or go to strip clubs. To those people I ask you if you've ever been stone-cold sober at 3:30 in the morning and seen a midget scream at the top of his tiny man-lungs to a dealer at Mandalay Bay, "Fuck you guys! I'm going to other casinos where it's funner!" and storm out of the room as fast as a midget can storm out of anywhere. He even said "funner." This is the kind of surreal experience that must be had without the hindrance of any substances to make it even crazier. If I was on something, I'm sure I would have had an aneurysm from sensory overload. Plus, I know for a fact that there's no way that this wasn't real.

Interesting thought of the day:
One book left out of the Bible, Tony, tells the story of a single father who takes his daughter, Samantha, and moves in with a woman, Angela, her son, Jonathan, and mother, Mona, and works as their housekeeper. This was kept out of the original text because there can only be one boss in the Bible, and to question it is blasphemy.

You whores better start your commenting again or I'll start posting pictures of extreme close-ups of my newly-acquired genital warts fresh from a day's worth of picking and scratching.

Wednesday, September 08, 2004

Alright, so I went to get my haircut today because I saw Scott Baio on a TV show and he changed his hair. As goes the Baio, so, too, go I. Man, that was some Shakespearean-type shit I just dropped on y'all motherfuckas. I'm the oxymoronic juxtapositioner; I'll put a eunuch next to a rape victim.

Anyway, so I went to get my haircut today--which looks awesome and I'm so guaranteed to get the maximum amount of lady this weekend in Vegas--and I got another one of those ladies with a chubby vagina. The weird thing about this phenomenon is that the woman isn't necessarily fat. She's a little thick, but it's like she carries all her weight in her Tuna Canyon Blvd. So, she's leaning over, cutting my hair as a haircutstress should do, and her ladyparts start to poke, ever so slightly, at my arm. It's so awkward because she has to know that she's giving me sweet vagina-kisses on my arm, and I have to pretend it's not happening. I've never been to a strip club before because I think it's weird to pay for stuff like that when I can get it from influential children for free, but it's instinctual, when a vagina is rubbing your arm while you're sitting in a chair soaked in ballsweat, to yell out, "Oh yeah! Bring that shit to papa!" and then punch the woman in the nose. Maybe it's just the way I was brought up, but that's how you're supposed to treat a lady. If chivalry is dying in this day and age, it's the least I can do to try to keep it alive and kicking just a little longer.

The thing that was weirdest about this particular woman's area, was that it was dense, like a goddamn black hole. It felt like an elbow, not a soft, tender babymaker. Maybe she's just really fit down there and it was all muscle and she was flexing--you know, trying to show off for me. So I pulled the apron-thing tight enough to show a little male cameltoe--and they kicked ME out of the place? My "Well she started" defense didn't really hold up when she pulled down her pants to reveal that she, in fact, had a 100 percent robotic hairy hatchet wound made of solid gold. All my questions were answered.

Since I'm going to Vegas this weekend, I want suggestions as to what I should do while I'm there. I'm not going to heed any of this advice unless the advice is to go to sleep early, drink lots of milk and visit all the churches in the downtown area because that's what I'm already planning. This is just my way to get you all to comment again since, apparently, I scared everybody away with my song. I don't really have a retarded girlfriend, idiots; she is very AIDS-y, though.

Interesting thought of the day:
Bronchitis is one of the words that actually sounds like what it means. A word that doesn't do this? Sodomy. It's such a poetic sounding word for something so wretched, vile, and awesome.

Monday, September 06, 2004

With the modern age being so fucking moderny, all the shit in the world is getting faster and better and smelling more like caramel than it ever did before. The Drive-Thru is no exception to this rule except for the part about the caramel. It tastes like caramel, but doesn't smell like it--just like my poop.

So, tonight, as I pass by the Jack in the Box drive-thru on my way home from being awesome all night, I see one car in the line and it's sitting at the order window. Cool, I think, I'll be getting out of here fast. There's only two people in that car. Now, this is where I went wrong. I actually thought that something in my life could go right, but my life's like a poster of a kitten covered in water, "It's just one of those days." I pull behind the big car (I'm not good with car names, makes or types, I'm just positive that it was a car because bicycles only have two wheels and only grown Mexican men or the little people I like to call, "My Van Buddies" ride those) and assume this will go quickly. The car pulls away, and I look at the new-age screen that shows your order and, in this case, the order before me and it's at that point I know I'm fucked. How do two people order $22.60 worth of food from Jack in the Box? You know what that comes to? The guy in the drive-thru actually reaches through the window and gives you a hand job with his fist full of french fries. Don't knock it 'til you try it. Now, the thing I don't like about this screen is that I know, if I was in the situation as the fatasses in front of me, and knew the person behind me was seeing I spent that much, I'd try to justify it. I'd lean my head out the window and yell, "It's not all for me. I'm buying a lot of food because I'm giving it to a bunch of babies with jaundice. You probably didn't know that they need nine monster tacos each, but they do. You can look it up, motherfucker. That's called a medical fact."

I also like that screen because it lets me know that they heard me the first goddamn time when I said "No mayonnaise." This way, when I get home and discover the mayonnaise on my chicken sandwich, I'm absolutely justified when I go back to Jack in the Box and poop in their cash register. And that's going to be my excuse when I finally come to trial for it. The news was calling me the Registurder. I hate the people on the news; they're bad with names and not funny at all.

I have Inside the Actor's Studio on in the background right now and Charlize Theron just said she did commercials for Africa that were "anti-rape." I haven't seen all the pro-rape commercials that she's fighting against, so I think she's fighting a battle that doesn't exist. I'm going to come out with my own line of commercials that are anti-eyeball-biting. I'm going to put a stop to all the lobbying I see on TV that promotes the biting of eyeballs. I just get sick of it.

And now, a word from Katie Couric.

Hi. I'm television's Katie Couric. The next time your child wants to play "Eye Spy" with you, bite their eyeballs off their face. That's something you both will learn from.

The More You Know music and swoosh fly across the screen making everybody feel completely smart and enlightened.

To close out this motherfucker, since Inside the Actor's Studio is still on, I want you all to participate in James Lipton's closing questions with me.

What is your favorite word? Douche

What is your least favorite word? Consent

What turns you on? A hairbrush in the colon

What turns you off? Not a hairbrush in the colon

What sound or noise do you love? The sound of somebody lighting Prince on fire (I haven't actually heard this, but it would make me so damn happy).

What sound or noise do you hate? The sound of boiling breast milk burning my scrotum.

What is your favorite curse word? Motherfucking scurvy, bitch! My fucking scurvy is acting up like a motherfucker. You got a motherfucking orange I can eat?

What profession other than yours would you like to participate in? The guy who invented the rubber vagina.

What profession would you absolutely not like to participate in? Fluffer on a porno starring lepers.

If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say as you arrive at the pearly gates? Fuck cunt shit ass cock snatch bitch whore ass bukkake.

Famous sayings explained:
"Stick in the mud," commonly used to refer to someone or something that hinders a good time, comes from the following. Long ago, like, thirty years or something, a man was running erands for the king or caesar or assistant manager, when he was asked for a strange favor. He was asked to carry a bundle of small pieces of wood from one spot to another while it was raining outside. He had specific directions not to get any of the wood wet and dirty or else he'd pay a great price. So, after working for hours or minutes, the man was almost done when he slipped and fell with one of the pieces of wood landing in a pile of wet dirt. In a panic, the man tried to cover his mistake, but it was too late, for the shiek or mall cop or mayor saw the man's mistake and told him he would now pay the price. He opened a box sitting next to him, pulled out the body of the man's dead grandmother and repeatedly jammed his ever-erect wiener in her balloon knot while yelling out, "What's wrong grandma? Got a stick in the mud?" So, remember, next time something's hindering your fun time, at least your dead grandmother isn't being sodomized in front of you.

Holy crap, that's retarded. But I wrote it and I'll deal with it because I'm way more of an adult than you'll ever be.

Well, looks like we're out of time. For all my love tips, you'll have to tune in next time or kill yourself because, really, nobody will ever love you.

Interesting thought of the day:
One day, I'm going to open up a place that teaches self-defense but also serves delicious bagels; I'll call it Tae-Kwan-Dough. Or, maybe I'll sell warm, tasty, flavored beverages instead of bagels and call it KaraTea. Never mind. Instead, I'm going to hang myself with my 25-year-old umbilical cord I've been saving in a jar filled with mayonnaise for having written those horrible, horrible puns.